The Experiment
by CoatNTails
Summary: Deeper emotional context for The Final Problem. This story is a novelization-style exploration of the events of Series 4, episode 3. I think it started as kind of catharsis for myself, but it's growing with your encouragement. Please review if you want to see more.
1. Chapter 1: Simple Words

**This fic is inspired by season 4, episode 3, "The Final Problem", and contains spoilers galore. What follows is in large part a transcript, with some self indulgent exploration of the emotions behind the dialogue.**

 **Concerning chapter 1 in particular: This is not intended as Sherlock / Molly - I don't slash Sherlock at all. I've always been given to believe from the source material that Sherlock just isn't really interested… Neither physical attraction nor romance titillates him as much as the brain work. But, that being said, I believe Sherlock does actually love several people powerfully - John of course being the big one - and the TV show provides Molly Hooper as another person of significance. Watching "The Final Problem", I was fascinated by the idea that he's never actually said those words to anyone, and probably never would if he could help it. Partly to avoid the distraction of thinking about it too much, partly to protect himself from the inevitable pain that comes with acknowledged love. When he is forced, he tries hard not to mean it, but fails, and admits in front of everyone that he is, in fact, vulnerable to emotion. Like that chink in his armor only becomes real when it's said out loud.**

 **I also wanted to explain how, in my imagination, Molly is able to forgive Sherlock after this and can still bear to be friends with him. And also why Lestrade is so Johnny on the spot when it's time to rescue Watson from the well. If you like it and/or want more, PLEASE TELL ME. Nothing gets me writing like knowing someone else is enjoying it too.**

 **Thank you for reading!**

* * *

She could see from his face that this one was much too easy. The hard lines of his jaw, the coldness that dropped over his eyes… they were all lies, of course, that much she could now perceive, but they came too quickly. He was able to hide his emotional response with only a little effort. The death of a stranger was - _almost_ \- unmoving. Even in the first room, his concern appeared to be much greater for his friend John Watson than for the dead couple. It had been unclear if that was simple pragmatism over-ruling emotion - since Watson was alive and would conceivable benefit from his concern more than the dead couple - or whether it truly was a lack of response to the (presumably) pitiable suffering and death he had been forced to witness.

No, she could see now, the response was there. His face revealed it, particularly around the eyes before they went cold. But it was very small, much smaller than other people, much smaller than it (supposedly) should be. She used John Watson as a baseline - the control for her experiment - and he had displayed the anticipated degree of remorse. Comparatively, even brother Mycroft seemed disturbed. But this she mostly disregarded. She theorized that his response had less to do with the killing and more to do with finding himself in a vulnerable position. He didn't like the unpredictable nature of the experiment. It _frightened_ him… which she liked. Sherlock was frightened too, of course. Did she like that? She wasn't sure. He was frightened, but unlike Mycroft, he was also annoyed.

Yes, that sharp grab of the pistol from off the table was definitely indicative of annoyance. Present, perhaps, in even stronger measure than the remorse. Annoyance at being kept off balance by her actions? Annoyance at himself, for not being as clever as he should be? Or annoyance at her, at her choices, for not conforming to the construct of justice? She couldn't quite tell yet.

It was interesting. It was all so terribly interesting. And the next room wouldn't be so easy. She would see more, much more… Her stomach fluttered, so strongly that it distracted her, and she wondered again, for just a fraction of a moment, whether it was supposed to be a 'good' feeling or a 'bad' feeling.

"You dropped the other two," Watson said angrily to the image of her face on the monitor, "Why?"

"Interesting."

Eurus narrowed her eyes and leaned slightly closer to the screen to examine John Watson's face. Yes, it was the same. Sherlock, like Watson, was irritated by the deviation from the anticipated ending. 'Justice' was something Sherlock believed in.

"Why?!"

She leaned back again.

"Does it really make a difference, killing the 'innocent' instead of the 'guilty'? …Let's see."

With a firm press of the release button, Alex Garrideb joined his brothers and dropped to water below. As Moriarty's voice cheerfully mocked them over the speakers, she scrutinized the faces that turned to the window to watch, saw the slight muscle spasm produced by shock, and then…one subject displayed fear, one a combination of fear remorse and anger, and the third showed only cold annoyance.

"…No," she said with a touch of disappointment. "That felt pretty much the same."

"John." Eurus watched as Sherlock once again moved to console his friend. She cocked her head. Consolation. For John Watson, but for himself too, she realized. "Don't let her distract you."

"Distract me-?"

" _Soldiers_ today."

John took heart and straightened his shoulders. A mere look from Sherlock had a similar affect on Mycroft, spurring him to walk with them into the next room.

She had always found the expression "butterflies in the stomach" to be a curious one. But it had begun to make sense.

The coffin lay there in the center of the room, the bright satin beaming at Sherlock as he stalked in. It was rather cute, she thought, the way he moved with the gun, like she might provide something he might want to shoot at. Her affection was smothered by a wave of disgust at his idiocy which she tamped down.

"One more minute on the phone," she conceded.

* * *

"I'm frightened," the girl admitted, "I'm really frightened…!" She was all alone, and had no control.

"It's ok, don't worry, I don't have very long with you, so I just need you to tell me what you can see outside the plane."

His voice was so gentle. He would help her. She felt better immediately and moved to look out of one of the little windows.

"Just the sea," she told him. "I can see the sea." The vast blackness all around her, stretching out into nothingness.

"Are there ships on it?"

"No ships." Her breath quickened, tears threatening to come again and choke off her voice. "I can see lights, in the distance."

"Is it a city?"

"I think so."

Silence answered her, and it made the fear flare up in her chest. She could hear muttering voices, soft in the background.

"Hello, are you still there?"

"Still here, just give us a minute…"

Yes, it was the other people there with him, speaking to him. Maybe they would help her too. But she missed his voice, the comfort of his voice, telling her it would be alright. Without it, even the other muttering voices felt like a danger to her. Only he would help her, and the others were distracting him from it. Distracting him from her-

"Is there really, no one there who can help you, have you really, _really_ checked?" His voice had a soft tremor this time, a higher pitch, none of which she consciously picked out but all the same, she understood that he was scared, too. Whatever the other people had said to him had made him scared.

"Everyone's asleep," she said softly. She choked on the sniffle that wanted to come and clung harder to the phone like it was itself a lifeline. "Will you help me?" she pleaded.

"We're going to do everything that we can."

He hadn't answered her properly, and she, like all children, understood what that meant.

"I'm scared," she wept, "I'm really scared."

* * *

Eurus opened her eyes and jostled the receiver switch, cutting Sherlock off mid-reply with the click and savoring the opportunity to watch him scramble to shift gears. A ripple of playfulness trickled through her.

"Now. Back to the matter in hand. _Coffin_. Problem: someone is about to die. It will be, as I understand it, a tragedy." She frowned and gazed into the middle distance as she pretended to consider the inane concept of tragedy. "So many days not lived, so many words unsaid. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera… et cetera-"

"Yes, yes, yes, and this, I presume, will be their coffin!" Sherlock snapped impatiently with a jab of the pistol towards the offending ornamented box. So, he was still annoyed with her and didn't want to play. But he would.

" _Who's_ coffin, Sherlock?" she replied, soft and patient. "Please… start your deductions. I will apply some context in a moment."

She watched as he quickly observed a few obvious details from the coffin. The coldness of it made her smile. He wasn't feigning it this time, no… this time, he honestly didn't care. That was interesting. When there wasn't a face, a body before him, there was no emotional reaction at all. Death was just an idea, and not truly a reality. She had wondered if the idea of it being a woman would have altered his reaction, falling in line with that strange statistical bias of a woman's death being more tragic than a man's. But that seemed to have no affect whatsoever. She noticed with interest that the farther he got, the more details he gleaned, the less annoyed he became. In fact, all his anxiety seemed to wash away as he lost himself in the deduction. More than that, he actually seemed pleased to spell it out in the simplest terms for his poor dull friend, John Watson. She would have enjoyed watching him find the plaque on the coffin lid himself, but brother Mycroft was characteristically impatient.

"Yes, yes, very good Sherlock, or we could just look at the name on the lid."

Both John and Sherlock moved to look at the plaque. Only Sherlock perceived it's meaning.

"So, it's for someone who loves somebody," John said stupidly.

"It's for somebody who loves Sherlock," Mycroft corrected gently. Gently, why? The little man's stupidity didn't deserve gentleness from her brother. She wrenched her eyes away from Sherlock's suffering to observe that Mycroft had also been looking at Sherlock when he spoke. Ooh. Interesting. "This is all about you, everything here," Mycroft continued, remembering himself and wiping the gentleness out of his voice. "So, who loves you? I'm assuming it's not a long list."

Eurus turned her eyes back to the camera feed that best showed Sherlock's face - and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. He stood at the foot of the coffin, clutching the edge of it like he might lose his balance. He gazed at it, at the very same coffin he had been making cold deductions from a moment ago, and it was as if his eyes were seeing something completely different. Something only his eyes could see, that the rest of them were blind to. Somehow, the three little words on the plaque had plucked the woman from her lonely London flat and put her there in the coffin for Sherlock to see… and suddenly he cared. He cared, oh, so very much.

John Watson arrived eons after anyone else at the most obvious conclusion and said, "Irene Adler."

"Don't be ridiculous, look at the coffin," Sherlock said in a low voice. Eurus narrowed her eyes, drinking it in. "Unmarried, practical about death, alone." It was pain making his voice low, giving it that hint of hoarseness. It was dread in this face as he looked at the empty coffin and saw it occupied. Yes, Eurus thought, touching her chest lightly as she concentrated a moment on the tightness she felt there, marveling at the sudden shortness of breath that had no physical cause whatsoever. Sherlock's own chest visibly rose and fell as he gripped the edge of the coffin and struggled with the name on his lips. Yes, somehow, it _was_ tragic, to Sherlock. Personal tragedy, observable, perceptible…

"…Molly."

"Molly Hooper."

That was interesting. She dropped her hand from her chest. Molly wasn't just Molly - he'd corrected his friend instantly to specify that it was Molly Hooper. As if there was a danger in getting her mixed up with any other Molly… Only this Molly was significant. One Molly in a world of Molly's. The only one Sherlock cared about. Just look how he cared…!

"She's perfectly safe," Eurus assured him with a smile. "…for the moment. Her flat is rigged to explode in approximately three minutes. Unless I hear the release code from her lips."

She switched the feed on the monitor to show three camera angles on Molly Hooper in her flat. Mingling with them in the upper right corner of the screen, the three minute mark was displayed in white numbers on a black background. Sherlock gravitated towards the screen the same way he'd moved towards the glass wall of her cell.

"I'm calling her on your phone, Sherlock," Eurus cooed playfully.

He looked at the camera this time. Looked right into her eyes from across the compound. Oh, yes. Now she had his attention.

"…Make her say it," she demanded. His eyes dropped, and he grimaced like she'd dealt him a physical blow.

"Say what?" John asked.

"Obvious, surely?" Eurus answered with a laugh.

"No," John snipped.

"Yes," Sherlock growled. He turned to gaze at the back of the room and the rest turned their eyes with him. The plaque gazed back placidly, answering silently with the words: "I love you".

"…Oh, one important restriction: you're not allowed to mention in any way at all that her life is in danger. You may not, at any point, suggest that there is any form of crisis. If you do, I will end this session, and her life." She paused and enunciated very carefully to be sure he understood the conditions this time, "are we clear?"

Sherlock acknowledged her with a tiny nod of his head and without any further delay, Euros simultaneously started the countdown timer and tapped the send-call icon. She cued up another one of Moriarty's funny sound bytes, watching Sherlock's face avidly as his mental processes flashed across it. He was feeling a great deal of anxiety this time around, that was obvious. The mask of coldness hadn't touched his face even once since he'd seen the words on the plaque. Everything was simply there, plain to read. Like it had been when he was a child.

How beautiful it was.

As the dial tone buzzed, she watched his eyes flick over the cameras that showed Molly looking at the caller ID, watched him change his mind about what he was going to say three - no, four times. But as the phone continued to ring, a soft look of confusion fell over his features. On the screen, Molly Hooper turned from the beckoning phone to cut the lemon that rested on the cutting board. Sherlock shifted his weight impatiently.

"…what's she doing?"

"She's making tea," John observed.

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, "but why isn't she answering her phone?"

"You never answer your phone," John pointed out bitterly.

"Yes, but it's _me_ calling…"

In defiance of Sherlock's self importance, Molly Hooper continued to ignore the phone and let the call go to voice mail. Her self-conscious little voice filled the cell, letting out an embarrassed laugh at her own joke as she proclaimed that she was busy in the 'dead center of town'. Eurus let the whole voicemail greeting play without stopping the timer. It was like an eternity for the three men in the cell, who fidgeted as though they were the ones in danger of being blown up. Or, at least, John and Mycroft did. Sherlock paced in a tight circle between the coffin and the monitor, barely able to contain his frustration.

"Okay, okay," Eurus said soothingly. "Just one more time."

She caught herself biting the edge of her bottom lip as Sherlock turned to glare once more at her through the camera. The ringing of the phone turned his head away, though, and in a moment, all attention was once again focused on Molly Hooper. She squeezed the life out of the lemon in her hands and shot an aggravated glance at the glowing screen that bore Sherlock's name.

"Come on, Molly, pick up," John Watson urged in a whisper, perfectly aware that the woman in London couldn't hear him, "just bloody pick up…"

With glacial slowness, she wiped her hand on a tea towel, and moved to pick up the phone. For an age, she looked at it, as if she hadn't been able to read Sherlock's name until it was a foot in front of her. Eurus had all the time in the world to watch Sherlock bow his head before the monitor, to watch with fascination how his anxiety shifted to despair as the call time ran out. Until, in the last moment, Molly's voice filled the cell again and snapped his eyes back up to the screen. Relief.

"Hello, Sherlock."

* * *

Now it would be alright. Now he was sure of himself. All he required was the chance to perform.

"Is this urgent? Because I'm not having a good day."

He was in complete control. Molly would do anything for him. She had said so and had till this moment unfailingly stood by it. Now all that remained was the choice of words to ease Molly's embarrassment.

"Molly I just want you do do something very easy for me and not ask why," Sherlock said.

"Ohh, God," Molly sighed, crossing her arm defensively over her stomach, "is this one of your stupid games?"

"No," Sherlock said with just a flutter of doubt crossing his face, "i-it's not a game. I… need you to help me." That was it, of course. She had always helped him. People rebelled at being told what to do but felt gratified at the opportunity to help. Help was the right word.

"Look, I'm not at the lab," Molly began, but Sherlock interrupted her refusal.

"It's not about that," he insisted. Impatience. Why wasn't she jumping to help him, the way she always did? He never thought about how to ask her before. He had always just asked and she had done it.

"Well, quickly then," Molly said with her own answering impatience.

Now that he was being careful, now that it _mattered_ , she wouldn't comply. But why had he thought that? Lives had depended on her help before now, his included, why was her own the one that mattered?

"…Sherlock?" Molly scoffed, as surprised as anyone at his delay. "What is it, what do you want."

Moriarty's face briefly obscured the view of her flat as he counted out the seconds for Sherlock, tick-tok, tick-tok, tick-tok.

"Molly, please…" Sherlock began, letting a hint of pleading into his voice before deciding in the moment that bluntness was best. "Without asking why, just say these words."

"What words?" Molly Hooper asked in a moment of trust.

There was the coldness. Eurus's eyes focused on it as it laid itself over his face, in the hard line of his jaw, in the evenness of his eyes.

"I. Love. You." Sherlock recited.

Molly pulled the phone from her ear and looked at it like it had been a viper and she hadn't noticed until that moment. Her next breath became a sniffle.

"Leave me alone," she said, still holding the phone away from her face like distance might ward off another strike. Her finger moved for the end-call icon.

"Molly, no - Please, no! Don't hang up - Do _not_ hang up."

Instantaneous reaction. Uncontrolled. Wide eyes, unnecessary gesticulation, voice rising sharply in volume as he begged with Molly Hooper. He was so _alive_. It was beautiful. It mustn't end too quickly.

"Calmly, Sherlock," Eurus reminded him, "or I will finish her right now."

* * *

Sherlock shot a glance at the camera, hands still raised placatingly towards Molly on the video screen, rocking on his feet in his desperation as he fought to find the words that would regain control of the situation.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Molly demanded tremulously. "Why are you making fun of me?"

"Please," Sherlock said, regaining control of his volume but not his intensity, "I swear, you just have to listen to me."

"Softer, Sherlock," Eurus chided him in a motherly tone.

"Molly," Sherlock snatched at Eurus's tone and tried to employ it for himself, speaking softly to Molly as though she were the child. "This is for a case. It's… it's a sort of experiment."

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock," Molly said angrily.

His eyes grew wide again as he realized his mistake. "No, I know you're not an experiment," he said quickly, still appealing to her as a child, "you're my friend." Had he ever told her that before? He thought he had, he thought it was obvious. Was it obvious? He hadn't made it obvious, had he. "We're friends. But, please -" His voice grew suddenly stronger. "Just say those words for me." She must. She simply must.

"Please," Molly said, so soft it was nearly a whisper, "don't do this." She closed her eyes and surrendered a little to the tears that wanted to come, begging him this time as she said again, "just, just… don't do it…!"

"It's very important," Sherlock insisted with gentle mercilessness. "I can't say why. But I promise you it is."

Molly pulled in another sniffling breath and firmed up again. "I can't say that, I can't… I can't say that to you."

"Of course you can, why can't you?" He smiled, close to laughter, and it wasn't even feigned. It was genuinely silly how easy it was to speak the words. All she had to do was speak the words.

"You know why."

Sherlock blinked. The smile drained away from his face. "No," he insisted, a little growl of frustration creeping into his voice, "I don't know why."

Molly sighed, and then sniffed bracingly. She leaned on the counter with the look of someone who knows they are being toyed with. "Of course you do," she said through tight lips.

Moriarty reappeared to remind him of the time trickling away. Sherlock closed his eyes against the sight of his face. His hand flexed into a fist and then released again. _Why_ couldn't she say it? It was infuriating. And what was more infuriating was the fact that of all the lying he had done - was doing - it was a truth was betraying him. He _didn't_ know. He squeezed his eyes shut and demanded again, "Please. Just. Say it."

"I can't, not to you."

"Why?"

"Because… because it's tr-…" Molly's voice broke, obscuring her answer, until she took another shuddering breath and forced it out of her chest. "It's, _true_ , Sherlock. It's always been true…"

Sherlock's face went blank. That reasoning was completely absurd. It was beyond understanding.

"Well if it's true," he said slowly, still looking for something beyond Molly's idiocy to explain her reluctance, "just say it anyway." Arguing with someone to save their life and they refuse to cooperate because the words required were true. Absurdity.

Molly laughed with tears in her eyes, letting out her breath in a sigh. "You bastard."

The insult rolled over him like smoke with no impact. "Say it. Anyway." he demanded, sure now that reason would win out over stubborn idiocy.

"…You say it."

Sherlock's eyes widened and then narrowed in confusion.

"Go on. You say it first."

He blinked but still failed to understand. "What?"

"Say it." Molly's voice held a venom he was sure he'd never heard before. "Say it like you mean it."

Sherlock stood dumb. John and Mycroft, who had averted their eyes until now, looked up and stared at the back of his head.

Eurus's eyebrows lifted in surprise when he looked at the camera, searching for a way out. She offered him no release, but bent closer to the microphone to remind him that it was the, "final thirty seconds."

Tick-tok, tick-tok.

Mycroft stirred, looking on the verge of prompting him.

Absurdity. His delay was absurd.

Sherlock nodded to himself. It was preposterous. Not to speak the words. Simply because they were….

"…I…" he forced out, making a physical effort to contract his diaphragm, push the air from his lungs, and form the sound. Why was this difficult? It shouldn't be difficult. He had just insisted to Molly that it shouldn't be difficult. He had believed that. It was a fact, both true and accurate. He possessed a functional larynx, spoke the language, and was perfectly capable of forming the sounds that composed the words. So why was it, in fact, so difficult? All he had to do was say it. It was simple. He took another breath, and concentrated.

Molly clutched the phone to her ear.

"I love you," Sherlock said. Matter of fact. Simple words. Words he had already uttered together once in this conversation. So simple… He opened his eyes and looked at the three camera angles of his friend, Molly Hooper, clutching her phone in the middle of a kitchen that was rigged with explosives. And in that moment, it broke upon him. She had been right. The words were simple - until they were true. And once they were true, somehow, they ceased to be words and became something else. Something that forced its way out through his lips once again, more softly, cutting through him as it left, because it was true.

"I love you."

Eurus blinked rapidly. Her eyes scanned the screen for every angle of Sherlock she had. Something had changed, but she couldn't perceive what it was. Something had changed the words. It was exactly like a live thing becoming a dead one. Something went missing in that moment, between life and death, and she felt she had never understood it properly. This was the same, it was just the same, except that Sherlock had taken dead words and turned them into live ones.

"…Molly…?"

Sherlock watched the screen, waiting for Molly to answer. But she wasn't answering. She was holding her finger over the end-call icon.

"Molly, please…"

There were tears in Sherlock's voice. But Molly knew how wonderfully Sherlock could act. He could flip that on and off like a switch; she'd seen him do it. She nuzzled closer to the phone, still deciding whether to cut herself on that sharp true thing in return, unaware that four pairs of eyes watched her struggle. Finally she whispered back, hating it and hating herself for surrendering to it.

"…I love you."

The timer stopped at two seconds. Eurus killed the feed from Molly Hooper's flat.

Relief again. No… triumph. Subtly different. She took a mental note to study that further. He believed he had triumphed over those damnable, unreasonable words. He had beaten the game. Eurus felt a flash of regret that she had no detonator to activate. She thought that she would do it in that moment if she had one. Just to see how his face would change, how his voice would change. But it was better this way. Too much too soon might incite rebellion, and then he would never play with her properly. Her eyes flicked from him to Mycroft as he surprised her again by trying to console their brother.

"Sherlock, however hard that was- "

"Eurus I won," Sherlock said loudly over his brother. "I won." Mycroft fell silent, accepting Sherlock's refusal.

Ahh, Eurus thought with a smile. Cold again. Hiding again. Time to poke it with a stick again.

"Come on, play fair," Sherlock complained. "The girl on the plane. I need to talk to her."

Eurus examined his face, amazed at the scope of his silly pride and how it could coexist with the other things he so obviously felt.

"I won," he insisted, like it was Eurus who was being stupid. "I saved Molly Hooper!"

Eurus laughed. The sound made him turn to see her expression on the monitor. "Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win, you lost. Look what you did to her. Look what you did to yourself, all those complicated little emotions, I lost count."

Sherlock slowly turned his back on the screen, on the camera. But there were plenty of other cameras in the room to track him. He stalked to the side of the coffin as she continued to speak.

"Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."

He slammed the pistol down onto the coffin support, abandoning it there. Molly Hooper's life had never been in danger. He glared balefully at the plaque on the lid of the coffin and realized that he had, in fact, laid the intended recipient to rest in it himself.

"Now, please. Pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency, the next one isn't going to be so easy."

The door of the cell hissed open again at the press of her finger.

"In your own time," she prompted. And then Eurus fell silent, leaving Sherlock with no distraction from the sharp, true thing that twisted in his chest, knowing that its answer would never come again.

* * *

Molly held the phone to her lips for long moments. There was no tea, no kitchen, no flat - the universe had narrowed down to a pinpoint that included only her and the other voice on the phone. The other voice didn't speak… it sighed. It wasn't a sigh of joy, it wasn't pain. It was something else. Something wrong. Molly's brow creased in confusion. And then something completely alien intruded into her tiny universe.

"Sherlock- " Another voice on the line. " -however hard that was for you- " The universe expanded again with enough force to stop her heart. She was on speaker phone.

"Eurus, I won." Sherlock's voice. "I won."

…. _I won_ ….

It was one of his stupid games after all. And she had played right along. Her face scrunched up. As hard as she wanted to, she couldn't move to hang up the phone.

"Come on, play fair, the girl on the plane, I need to talk to her."

Molly's breath propelled itself forcefully from her chest in a sob. She was sure that the phone would be crushed in the force of her grip.

"I won," Sherlock cried again, "I saved Molly Hooper!"

Molly's eyes blinked open at the sound of her name. Her breath returned in a hitched gasp. A stranger's voice laughed and spoke to Sherlock over the line.

""Saved her? From what? Oh, do be sensible. There were no explosives in her little house."

The woman kept talking but Molly's mind went blank a moment as the word 'explosives' rang in her ears. Explosives in her house. It had been a game, but it wasn't Sherlock's.

"…did to her, look what you did to yourself. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotional context, Sherlock. It destroys you every time."

Molly jumped at the sound of something slamming down on the other end of the phone. And suddenly she realized she could move. She dashed from behind her kitchen counter, snatched her keys, and flung herself through the door of her flat, running down the hall to the stairs with the phone still pressed against her ear.

"Now, please. Pull yourself together. I need you at peak efficiency, the next one isn't going to be so easy. …In your own time."

Molly ran until she was outside of her flat and kept running. A block away at least. She needed to get at least that far, in case the voice was lying.

"…Sherlock?" A third voice. John's. That was John, she was sure of it. She stumbled, opened her mouth to speak, but Sherlock answered first with a sharp inhalation of breath.

"No."

Molly stopped, frozen on the sidewalk.

"No!"

A terrible crash rang over the line - wood shattering under a rhythmic pounding, punctuated by Sherlock's voice, barely recognizable, crying, "No! No! No!"

Molly gasped and trembled as Sherlock screamed on the other end.

"Sherlock!" she cried. "Sherlock, where are you? What's happening? Sherlock!" For a moment she thought they'd heard her, for the sound of violence had stopped. But neither John nor Sherlock answered her. The strange voice did.

"Sorry," the woman's voice said, sounding breathless, "Sherlock is occupied with something at the moment. I'm sure he'd be happy to call you back if he survives. Meanwhile, phone the police, won't you, there's a good girl. Better do it now rather than later. It'll take them _ages_ to bumble over here, and it would be such a waste if they were too late. Here, let me free up the line for you."

The phone beeped mildly in her ear to indicate that the call had ended.


	2. Chapter 2: A Lapse in Cleverness

"…Molly? …Molly, slow do- … … I'm on my way, but stay on the line with me."

Inspector Lestrade leapt up from his chair, tucking the mobile phone against his shoulder as he swung his coat on. He kept Molly's frightened voice there in his ear even as he picked up his desk phone and stabbed at the number pad, yelling into it that he needed a bomb squad at her address. He kept her talking as he rang up the boys who would know how to trace the call, set others on the task of evacuating Molly's building, and still others on finding out the last known locations of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. An after-thought made him pause, made his stomach drop a few feet, but he ignored the feeling and just rang up bomb disposal again, telling them to give the Scotland Yard building itself a good looking over. The same thought made him ring Mrs. Hudson to tell her to leave her Baker street flat until they had a chance to come check it out and make sure it was safe. He put the desk phone down and let out a breath. If this sort of thing kept up, he might have to think about emigrating.

"They're on their way, Molly. And I'm right behind them," he said as he whisked through the office. "Just stay where you are, and don't go near the building. …Yes, the evacuation is in progress. …I've got people working on it. We'll find them. Just try to stay calm-"

His phone beeped to tell him that he had a text.

"Was there anything else that you heard in the background, any ambient noises that might tell us where they were? … And you're sure you didn't recognize the woman's voice?"

It beeped again. Impulse made him pull the phone away from his face to give it half a moment's glance, but he did a double take and stared at the text alert.

"…Hang on Molly… Whoever it is, they sent us directions."

The text from Sherlock's number contained a set of GPS coordinates and a message that read:

I was going to let you try. But on second thought, I don't trust you to figure it out on your own. Here's some help. Come. But not too soon. If you approach within a mile before I tell you that you may, I will remotely detonate the 10 other explosives I have planted in various densely populated areas. I will provide you with the coordinates of 3 of them as a sample of the damage I am prepared to do.

Another three sets of GPS coordinates came through.

Based on the observations I've made of these places, taking into account the weather and time of day, I estimate that I would end the lives of 260-340 people. Maybe up to 375 or so if I was very lucky and the school transport happened to be passing by. Please wait for my text.

A smiley face emoji beamed up at Lestrade.

~ — ~

Mycroft leaned lightly on the doorframe with his arms crossed and watched his brother suffer. His posture and his frown were outwardly disdainful. Perhaps a touch disappointed. He didn't offer any help or comfort. That was John Watson's area, and he was already making the attempt as Mycroft watched. A last pang of bitterness squeezed at him as he saw Sherlock respond, saw his pain ease, and was reminded again that cleverness wasn't always the best skill for the job.

It wasn't that he didn't want to. He wanted to every time. Even the times when he truly was disdainful. When Sherlock flew himself too closely to the fire on Icarus wings and tumbled down into withdrawal. Even then, when Mycroft had to watch the cycle of self-destruction, he wanted to give Sherlock comfort. But what comfort was there to give? Mycroft had always been there to tend to the pains of the body, but he didn't know any cures for the heart. If he did, he would use them himself. All he understood were the preventative measures. And those he schooled his brother in tirelessly.

Or at least he had tried. For all the good that it had done him. Sherlock didn't listen at all. He formed attachments left and right.

He watched as Watson took his brother's hand and hoisted him up. The bitterness flared, and he held it for a long moment, felt the envy like bile in his gut, was aware of self preservation rearing it's head and spurring him to do something, anything, to change the probability of Sherlock's choice… And then he let it trickle away with a slow exhale of breath. Sherlock's choice had been made ages ago, when Mycroft wasn't paying close enough attention. There was nothing he could do to change it now. And if he was going to be honest with himself, which he feared he must at this stage, it was probably the right choice. For Sherlock, anyway. The country itself would suffer his loss terribly. But if the honesty was forced to continue, the country never really had come before Sherlock in Mycroft's thoughts.

Mycroft wouldn't be there to protect Sherlock anymore. To shepherd him away from the potential for pain. But maybe that had been his mistake all along. He really was a colossal idiot.

Redbeard. He might have torn down Sherlock's fantasy, there at the beginning. Forced him to cope some other way. But in the face of Sherlock's pain, he'd chosen instead to help him nurture the fantasy, and bought him a dog bowl and a leash with his earnings. Mycroft set his brother on a path that led him away from forming any such attachments ever again, and reminded him at every chance he got that they were _different_ from other people.

Well. There was no sense regretting it now.

Mycroft unfolded his arms and pushed off from the wall, turning to lead the way into the next cell. Glancing around, he perceived the lack of props, and concluded that the time had in fact come. He cast a glance at the pistol in Sherlock's hand. It would be quick, at least. But he did wish that it didn't have to be Sherlock. Though that was the whole point, he supposed.

He had brought Sherlock here himself.

What a moron he had been.

"Hey, sis, don't mean to complain, but this one's empty." _Think, Sherlock. She's given you every clue that this was coming._ "What happened, did you run out of ideas?" _You know, even if you don't want to admit it._

"It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you?"

Mycroft let his breath out through his nose in long sigh, and tried to swallow down the fear that had crept up from his gut. It was no wonder that the ancient Greeks and Hebrews regarded the bowels rather than the heart as the seat of certain emotions, he thought.

"I told you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game."

If Sherlock chose his mark, it would in all probability be the head. Which would be a shame considering the value that his brain posed to research, but would also mean that death should be blissfully instantaneous. He had faith that Sherlock knew where the best kill shot to the brain would be. He really would have made a magnificent murderer if he hadn't dedicated himself to more wholesome occupations.

"Just two of you go on from here, your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time."

It was possible, he admitted, that he might choose the heart instead, possibly as a last metaphorical jab at him. Mycroft supposed that that would be his own preference, since it would preserve the brain matter, but it meant a higher probability of physical pain. Unless he was a very good shot. Mycroft thought of the bullet holes through the eyes of the smiley face on wall at 221B, and decided that Sherlock was capable. So, accounting for the caliber of the bullet and allowing a small window for miscalculation due to anxiety, potentially five or so seconds of pain before adrenaline compensated, and probably ten full seconds of consciousness altogether before shock took hold. Not instantaneous, but not too terrible.

"Who's help do you need the most: John, or Mycroft?"

Mycroft picked up John's movement in his peripheral. He looked up from his thoughts to make eye contact with his rival across the room. In a last second fit of survival instinct, his mind rebelled, defiant in the knowledge that he was cleverest and so would always be the most helpful. Somewhere deep in his heart there kindled a last tiny candle-flame of hope that Sherlock might do something unexpected.

"It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other."

Sherlock looked at John Watson first.

Danger always exposed people's true priorities. Mycroft let his eyes drop and passed a hand over his face as he came to grips with the inevitability at hand. He was surprised, there at the end, how peaceful he actually felt, once hope truly died and he was sure of the outcome. He forgave Sherlock easily. Much more easily than he'd expected to.

"You have to choose, family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson."

It was time for a performance.

"Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick- "

"Eurus, _enough._ "

"Not yet, I think. But nearly."

Eurus focused on their faces so intently that she wasn't aware of her lips parting, and the hungry look in her eyes was broadcast plainly onto the screens that surrounded them on thee sides. Brother Mycroft was being unexpected again. He was saying the things that he was expected to say, but surprisingly he didn't mean them. And Sherlock… Sherlock wasn't displaying anger at all the way she had anticipated, only pain. A new kind of pain. The seventh variety at least that she'd observed within the confines of this experiment. Pain was such a broad term for such a florid response, she thought; there should be many more quantitative terms.

Even John Watson drew her eye, making her marvel at his ability to disregard the chemical impulses to fight that must have been sparking through his brain. He simply gave in to reason, and at the most unexpected time. How terribly interesting. To struggle so hard before with counter intuitive morals at no risk, and then to stand there in the shadow of a gun and dismiss the strongest animal instinct written into his DNA…

"…You shame us all. You shame the family name."

Eurus spared a moment's glance at Mycroft's face before turning her eyes back to Sherlock.

"Now for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him!"

Mycroft hissed the last, and Eurus thought it rather too obvious. But it was difficult to focus on that because Sherlock was flinching away from the words, physically turning his face away. It was a subset of revulsion, she thought.

"Stop it," Sherlock said quietly.

"Look at him, what is he? Nothing more than a distraction, a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it."

Something in Sherlock's tone of voice made Eurus's breath catch.

"Why?"

Her face pressed closer as Sherlock turned, head cocked with animal interest, and pinpointed the moment when her brothers acknowledged to each other what was about to happen. When Sherlock spoke, he sounded tired.

"Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing."

Mycroft straightened with a self conscious little shuffle of his feet while Sherlock turned his head to look at John Watson.

"Ignore everything he just said, he's being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him."

Mycroft made a feeble effort to mask his embarrassment by scratching at an unfelt itch at his temple, his grin as he looked up at his little brother plainly sheepish.

"…which is why this going to be so much harder."

It was so inexplicably difficult to breath that it felt to Eurus as if the space containing her lungs had shrunk. There was a hoped for outcome, of course. Logic abhorred hope, but it forced itself on her all the same, now and then. Still, she had never been sure which it would be until Sherlock actually leveled the gun at his brother.

"…You said you liked my Lady Bracknell," Mycroft said, still grinning, and sounding just the tiniest bit hurt.

Watson moved to intervene. "Sherlock, don't."

"It's not your decision, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, truly shutting him out this time, his tone a warning not to intrude on what was solely his and his brother's. Seeing in his face that John would respect that, he turned back to Sherlock and added, "Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

"Where would you suggest?" Sherlock asked with difficulty.

"Well," Mycroft said, taking a moment to button his collar and meticulously straighten his tie, "I suppose there is a heart, somewhere inside me. I don't imagine it's much of a target…" The corners of Sherlock's lips lifted in a tremulous smile. "…but, why don't we try for that." Mycroft straightened his posture and faced his brother squarely with a smile that seemed strong and sure.

John Watson intruded between them again, apparently unable to help himself. "I won't allow this."

A look of annoyance flashed over Mycroft's face, but it faded quickly. As did his determined countenance. He relaxed his posture, seeming to diminish, as he admitted to them both, "This is my fault." His eyes locked with Sherlock, knowing that only he would truly understand the scope of his folly. "Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock probed.

"Her Christmas treat. Five minutes conversation with Jim Moriarty, five years ago."

"What did they discuss…?"

"Five minutes conversation…" Mycroft watched the realization of his mistake spread over Sherlock's face, and was so deeply ashamed of his own stupidity that he dropped his gaze. "…unsupervised."


	3. Chapter 3: Five minutes Conversation

**I didn't intend to write this scene. I believed it would be too difficult and too risky. Five minutes conversation between two genius characters who weren't my own... pretty daunting! But the thought kept nagging at me that it would be fun. So here's my stab at it. I hope it doesn't disappoint _too_ much.**

 **Please note that I've also added material to Chapter 2 with this update, so if you've already read it and have come back for more, please take a glance back for more treats.**

* * *

Eurus opened her eyes before the door slid open. Some hint of a sound, maybe. Some fluctuation in the heat. A change in the molecules that filled up the space of her cell. She hadn't pinpointed exactly what it was yet that alerted her. But she had been in that one room for 27 years, 128 days, and 4 hours. It had become like an extension of her own body. A man in the lift was like an ant brushing past the smallest hair on her arm.

The door of the lift slid open, and Jim Moriarty stepped into the room with predatory slowness. She stood in a single, fluid motion, and matched his pace, meeting him at the glass. She immediately liked its eyes. They were different than other people's. It looked at her… and it wasn't afraid of her. But it wasn't that it was stupid like the some of the nurses and guards had been, it wasn't the glass separating them that made it feel safe. No… she could see he wasn't stupid. It was respect, not fear. That was the difference. Such subtle differences these things were… He paused in his approach. She mirrored him.

"I'm your Christmas present," he said with a gesture that encompassed his whole self. Eurus's lips turned up at the corners. Her pulse and breathing sped up as they both took a step closer to the glass, crossing the three foot safety boundary. "…So what's mine?"

Eurus flicked hungry eyes up to the camera in the right hand corner of the cell. She stared at it until the little red light blinked off. A brief glance around the cell showed that every camera had gone dark. Her eyes slid back to join again with Moriarty's.

"…Redbeard," she answered, drawing the word out slowly, so that it came to Moriarty through the speaker like a tinny caress.

Curiosity flickered over his face. Then a thin smile. And then they were both an inch from the glass wall, so close that if it hadn't been there, they might have embraced. She could feel the heat being shed from the meat that caged his mind, felt it warming the glass between them. He moved, and she moved her own meat to follow it, swaying before the glass to feel that fraction of a degree change, to roll that warmth against her skin. The glass, the hateful glass. If the glass wasn't there, she would sink her fingers into that meat, split it wide open and wrap herself up in it.

Moriarty turned and began to walk a slow line along the glass. She moved as his reflection, but in the opposite direction, like two planets that had danced too closely and slung each other out into space.

"…Redbeard," he said. "Is that a euphemism?"

"In a way," Eurus answered. "Aren't you going to ask why they put me in here?"

"Don't have to."

"Oh? Did my brother tell you? He's never told me."

Moriarty made a sound of amusement through his nose and spoke in a sing song voice that pleased her.

"You hurt Sherlock."

He reached the hatch that connected his side of the glass to hers, his eyes scraping over it a moment before he turned to start the slow trip back down the glass.

"Is that what it was?" Eurus asked as she too changed direction.

"Just a guess."

"Why? You hurt him, didn't you, and you're not down here."

"I only _said_ I'll hurt him. That only gets you interrogated. All foreplay and no climax."

"But you are going to."

"Yu-p." He popped his lips on the 'p' playfully, and turned his head towards her as they both approached the middle. Her eyes bore hungrily into his, the same color as Sherlock's, and it drew another smile to his lips. With slow steps they came together again, but passed each other without pausing.

"…Why don't they lock you up before you do?" Eurus asked.

"Because big brother Mikey's a boring idiot."

Eurus accepted this without argument, and changed the subject. "They read the papers to me sometimes, you're in them."

"Aww, did they get my good side?"

"Your name appeared with Sherlock's some months ago."

"I always liked a good bed time story myself."

"You got Sherlock to play with you."

He glanced back at her over his shoulder, something in her voice making him look. But as they turned again to pace like tigers along the glass, he could see that her face remained unchanged. "…It took a little coaxing, at first. Now the trick is getting him to quit. He's insatiable. But then, I do like that in a… playmate."

"I have a little game that I think he'd find stimulating."

Eurus stopped in the center. Moriarty turned to regard her, slipping his hands comfortably into his pockets.

"You're adorable, in a B minus horror movie sort of way, but you have two minutes left and you still haven't told me what Redbeard is."

"Two minutes, twenty-six seconds. Not What but Who."

"Even better."

"Redbeard was his first pet."

"Ahh…He's got a few of those, these days."

"I took him away from Sherlock. But apparently it was too traumatic. He's forgotten all about it now. Do you have any brothers and sisters?"

"Nah, I hatched first and ate the rest," he said, shifting his weight more to one side than the other which Eurus perceived as a sign of impatience. His head swayed slightly, tilting back and forth, and she couldn't be sure if he was aware that he was doing it. "Where exactly am _I_ in this little game of yours?"

"Dead."

The motion stopped and he stared at her. "…You've really got to work on your pitch."

"I can make you immortal."

"You said dead a moment ago."

"If Sherlock doesn't know without a doubt that you're dead, then how can he lose his mind when he think's you've come back?"

She stood a moment, waiting for his answer. When it didn't come, she turned to face him, and they gazed at each other once again through the glass. The time ticked steadily away, second by second. Tick. Tick. Tick.

She was the first to move again, towards the hatch. He moved with her, in the same direction.

"Forty-five seconds doesn't seem like enough time to explain the rules of this game," he observed.

"In approximately seventeen days, we'll be able to discuss it at length," Eurus answered.

"Come again?"

"That's how long it will take for me to compromise security."

"How?"

"I'll say the right things."

"Well, if it was that easy, what's kept you?"

"No one's invited me out before."

They stopped together at the hatch. Moriarty's head swayed gently a moment before he bent to speak into the open compartment of the hatch.

"Wanna come out and play, baby?" he purred. He blew a kiss from his hand into the hatch, then pushed the button that closed his side and opened hers. Nitrogen and oxygen molecules that had just been in his lungs swirled out to mingle with the ones in her cell. She took a deep breath to pull a few of them into her own lungs.

With a lazy smile, Moriarty stepped backwards towards the lift, never turning his back on her.

"I'll keep my eye out for you," he said, in a slow deliberate way.

Five seconds later, the red lights on the cameras winked on again. But all they saw was Eurus sitting crosslegged in the center of her cell, alone.

Seventeen days later, Eurus sat at an outdoor cafe sipping tea and watching the London Eye make slow, pointless revolutions.


End file.
